Higher Stakes
by pricecheckgreen
Summary: Every time it fails to win her over he tries to change his strategy. Until finally it's not her he's aiming for.


The dark red liquid sloshes a little as he pours it into her glass, voice smooth and low when he makes his offer.

She carefully twirls the glass stem in her hand before bringing it up to her lips, sipping to avoid speaking—to avoid, as he figured, gleefully accepting the challenge. To give herself time to try and fight the compulsion.

He fills his own glass, oily grin spread across his tar lips, knowing she'll give in soon. It isn't a question of if she has the self-control—he knows she doesn't.

He knows because he has no self-control either.

By the end of the night he can't even remember the stakes. He's sure she does—the details of the bet are more important to her because it's not a means to an end for her, it's the main event. The goal of his night are things such as them dancing, tipsy—he less than her for he's been cheating again—feeding her sour grapes and bringing the glass back up to her mouth himself while she declares her imminent victory.

He kisses her a few times, taking a sip out of her glass next and pointing out that the bet isn't about who can get the most drunk but who can drink the most without passing out.

She almost doesn't seem to understand, frowning a little, before giggling and noting that he must be trying to confuse her again. His teeth sharpen, licking his lips and kissing along her neck while she drinks more of the wine.

Not his finest hour. But after at least a century apart from her he's not feeling his finest and he doesn't give a damn whether or not it's right.

Perhaps that's why the night ends not with reconciliation, intimacy, or even his winning the bet, but an upended bottle of wine broken across his face, armor sticky with the drying, rancid juice and wings drooping as marigold petals dart clumsily out of the castle and back to her own realm.

* * *

There is no wine next time, and her eyes narrow in fury when he so much as reaches for a bottle to pour himself a glass. Undeterred, he makes his next proposal, eyes low and calm while hers quivered with a fire that puts a shiver down his spine.

Hide and seek in his realm. It's not as intimate as their previous wager and she looks him over suspiciously at the harmlessness of it. He just smiles and offers to hide.

The stakes are irrelevant to him, so again he doesn't remember what it was that he bet. Something she cared about to get her in it and something he didn't really care about but pretended to. She would know, of course. That's all that mattered to her in this state of separation. It doesn't matter to him anymore, so while she does her best hunting for him amidst the spikes, crevices and caves, he is actually occupying himself in her realm, rifling through her bedroom and setting up candles.

It's a mix between a calculated act of seduction and investigating what she's been up to lately. Assuring himself that she hasn't taken on any other lovers, regardless of what the latest gossip liked to dictate. And then, once he's thoroughly ransacked her privacy, he began setting up all the lights, dim and flickering. He's always preferred dim lighting.

She figures out his deception by the time he's finished scattering rose petals throughout their—because he did like to think of it as his, someday—abode, leading a little trail up to her bed. It's enough to stumble her rage at his breaking his word once more, giving him time to trap her with a quick kiss and his spidery fingers curling around her waist.

It stupefies him that this leads not to a rekindling of their love, their reunion, her acceptance of him back into her bed, but a faint palm shaped indent in his tar skull and intense heat in his candle burned armor.

* * *

By these things and other attempts he draws the conclusion that she doesn't want him back at all—she doesn't ache for his touch as he does her, doesn't long for him to the point of losing sleep, doesn't worry that he's gradually slipping from her fingers. If she did she would snap to his side in a heartbeat. At least…that's what he'd do.

That is something he has to arrange for himself, then. If he can't rely on his wiles during the bets to bring her to him he'll rely on the prizes, the stakes.

Things she cares about, and things that matter to him less than her. Entirely focused on winning his goal, no longer trying to bring her back to him through tricks of the heart.

Under pale moonlight in the mortal plane, he bet for the souls of a family she'd grown quite fond of; bargaining chips to try and increase his hold on her. He'd put up something silly in return, the sword he'd chosen to fence her with. Steel clashing, swings just barely scraping his armor, nicking her gown—sadly not enough to expose any more of her sugary flesh, despite his best efforts—It becomes clear to him that she's gaining the upper hand. A sleight of hand deposits his snake staff behind her, curling around her foot and dropping her back.

But she catches it. And the leverage goes to her.

Over curling smoke and fire he made a bet for the Talisman of Eternal Youth she had in her possession. He again put up something frivolous; a crystal eye from a temple in the rainforest and a promise not to steal from there again. They both stand over the pit, each watching their respective choices for flower fare under the heat. Hers a dainty marigold, twirling and rising in the hot air, just barely showing the force of the flame. His is a rose—moving much more clumsily in a small path around hers, petals wrapped around each other. Unbeknownst to her he'd treated it with some special water from his realm, keeping it from burning.

Hers makes an honorable effort, but in terms of lasting against a fire-proofed plant, there's really no contest. He laughs and demands his reward. She pushes his flower into the fire and watches it burst into green flame.

A wager on a war he rigs by offering his side a new weapon. They sabotage his efforts by offering _tribute_ to him while she's watching.

A bet on an explorer's greed over his moral obligation to protect the people in his troupe—She finds his snake hissing in the man's ear trying to sweeten the pot for him to betray his fellows.

A century goes by this way.

* * *

Eventually he realizes what he's been doing wrong—he's not a fool, he was sure to get it eventually. Why it always ends in her anger, failure to achieve anything, losing the bet.

It seems so obvious, really.

The stakes aren't high enough.

He always puts up something he doesn't really want. Something that only matters because of what he can use it for in getting her to need him. To want him like he wants her. Or at least want what he can offer her. So he never tries hard enough. Doesn't really struggle to beat her. His tactics have been sloppy, careless. He needs a better prize.

Something he cares about. Something he couldn't bear to let slip through his grasp. Something that was almost more important to him than she was.

He slides his way up behind a single dark grave on the one night he's allowed by her side, as she adjusts to the lack of light in the mortal realm.

"Really, my dear. You have no _idea_ how cold and vile the Land of the Forgotten has become."


End file.
